I grin over the rim of my mug. “Sexy librarian on her lunch break?”
She kicks me under the table.
Celeste doesn’t even look up, already deep into a mood board.“Are you a romantic tulle girl? Lace? Sleek satin? Boho goddess with a thigh slit? Or maybe something bold—off-shoulder, structured corset, dramatic train?”
“I—I don’t know,” Olive says, wide-eyed. “But I guess I’ll start looking.”
Celeste beams. “I’ll send you designer profiles tonight. Trust me—we’ll find something perfect.”
***
Thisphotoshoot isn’t for us. It’s for the world.
For the public who thinks I’m spiraling again. For the brands still deciding whether I’m a safe investment. For the label, my manager, the board, and the press who live to dissect everything from my setlists to the state of my love life.
The narrative needs to change—and fast.
So here we are.
We’re standing in front of a slate-gray backdrop, all clean lines and dramatic lighting—elegant, modern, tasteful. The kind of setup that screamsVanity Fair cover. Olive’s in a blush dress that makes her look like she fell out of a storybook. I’m in a tux.
And behind the camera, a man named Viktor is flailing like a caffeinated flamingo, shouting, “Lean into it, my angels! Yes! Give me engagement, give me yearning!”
Olive shifts beside me, trying not to laugh as her hair sticks to her lip gloss under a wind machine set totornado season.She looks stunning and completely over it.
“Don’t smile with your teeth,” Viktor barks. “Smile with yoursoul.”
“I don’t think my soul got the memo,” she mutters under her breath.
I grin.
We’ve been posing for nearly an hour under too-bright lights and not-so-soft demands, and Viktor is entering what I can only describe as hisunhinged romantic visionary era.
He claps his hands, circles us like we’re prey, and says, “Now we build. Now we simmer. Now weignite.”
Olive gives me a look. “Did he just say ignite?”
“Oh yeah,” I mutter. “We’re officially in the third act of a fucking Nicholas Sparks movie.”
She snorts and adjusts her skirt. Her dress today is all soft tulle and barely-there blush, the kind that looks innocent from far away—until she moves. And then you notice the off-shoulder sleeves. The dip of her neckline. The way it hugs her waist like it was custom-built to test my restraint.
Viktor gestures for us to stand closer. “You are in love. You crave each other. But not yet, no touch. Just longing. All heat. No relief.”
Olive blinks. “This man definitely writes fanfiction.”
“Just go with it,” I murmur, stepping closer.
She does too. Our bodies aligned, just inches apart. No contact. But the air is thick between us—like we’re both holding something back.
“Eyes on each other,” Viktor commands. “Yes. That. Like you can’t breathe unless they do.”
I look at her. She looks back. Her eyes flicker over my face. My jaw. My mouth.
And Ifeelit—that magnetic pull that’s been building, day by day.
Viktor steps back and lowers his voice like he’s directing a scene from a forbidden romance drama. “Now… lean in. Almost kiss.Almost.I want tension. I want devastation. I want people screaming into their phones.”
Olive gives a tiny huff. “I—what does that even mean?”
